Wednesday, July 25, 2012
There was no denying it. No way to pretend like it wasn't happening. I was breathing slowly, more fully, clutching my stomach for support. Slipping less and less food past my pale lips, grabbing the fat on my thighs, counting my ribs, losing the colour in my cheekbones. I was slipping back into my selfish abyss. My darkest obsessions. Losing him suddenly meant nothing to me. And the last seven months meant nothing. And his words in the forest meant nothing. And it did not matter anymore if he did not want me. I would never want anything but him, no matter how long I lived. It was a crippling thing, this sensation that a huge hole had been punched through my chest, exercising my most vital organs and leaving ragged, unhealed gashes around the edges that continued to throb and bleed despite the passage of time. But it all meant little against the feeling that I was losing weight. It was something I could count on (literally). Something I could control. Nothing mattered anymore. I had no control whether he left me or surrendered as my prisoner, no control over what my family was putting me through, no control that my only friends had betrayed me. But I had control over my weight. The feeling was so relieving and exhilarating that I felt like I could fly.
And so I fell in my darkened slumber, counting on nothing in my life anymore but the number on the scale, and the characters I read in my books. Life was easier this way. Safer somehow. Nothing could hurt me anymore.
Pieces by: Valmai